


If I Could Only Know You Better

by orphan_account



Series: I Do Know You Better 'verse [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin appears just when Arthur thinks he is going to die in his first campaign, healing him with magic and saving his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started, as so many of my fics do, with just a few words. This is going to be the first part in a series of pieces about a 'verse where Merlin and Arthur meet at a younger age than in the show, and how the circumstances of that meeting would change their relationship.

Arthur stares at the blood as if in fascination. This first campaign was supposed to feel glorious and validating, but as the world starts to fade around him, the young prince just feels small, scared, and alone.

Just as he starts to think it will all end here, a boy appears  before him, scrawny and awkwardly beautiful, and even as he looks startled by his new surroundings, the boy holds out a hand. “Let me help.” The boy’s eyes glow a brilliant gold and then fade back to a mesmerizing blue while Arthur’s wounded belly begins to knit back together, eventually leaving him whole once more.

He should scream. He should shout, “Sorcerer!” to the high heavens, but this strange boy, this fey creature, has just saved his life, and to endanger his own would be a poor way to return something that is so much more than a simple favor. So instead, he pushes up from his reclined position and asks, “What’s your name, boy?”

“No more a boy than you, you prat! And I’m Merlin. Who are you?” Of course the boy – because he  _is_ , disregarding protestations to the contrary – does not know whose life he has just saved.

“I’m Prince Arthur.” Oddly, he receives far less gratification from the shocked and fearful reaction this incites than he thinks he should. He watches Merlin  back away slowly and feels slightly bereft. But looking around at the bedlam all about them, he decides that leaving is the best possible course of action for his unlikely savior. “Can you get back the way you came?” The boy looks uncertain, but he has ceased moving away, and Arthur cannot decide how he feels about that. Because it isn’t safe for people like this boy, not anywhere near the knights of Camelot, who would sooner run him through for the practice of sorcery than shake his hand for saving the heir to the throne, even at such great personal risk. But he can’t seem to say goodbye. He feels drawn to this boy in a way he never has to anyone else, and he knows he will feel their parting every bit as keenly as he felt the wound which until mere moments ago had rent his guts open and left him bleeding out on the battlefield.

“I um – I don’t actually know how I got here, to be honest.” Arthur sees him hesitate. “All I know is that I was chopping firewood for my mum, and then I felt this tug, and I was here, with you.” The young prince flounders, searching for something, anything, to help his – friend? He supposes they must be, now. Strange. He’s never had a friend, before. Unless he wants to count Morgana. Which he definitely _doesn’t_ . – get to safety, no matter how much he wishes he could simply drag the boy all the way back to Camelot and hide him away in his chambers forever. The boy just  said he has a mum, so clearly he would be missed. And even Arthur knows that he cannot always have everything that he wants.

“Could you try… seeing yourself back where you started and … I don’t know. Thinking about how it felt? To come here?” He feels ridiculous suggesting such a thing; what does he know about how to do magic? But Merlin swallows and nods, and then makes no move to do so. Arthur does not know whether to be warmed or terrified by this. The boy needs to leave, before someone sees him, but everything in Arthur is screaming, _“Stay!”_ Merlin  steps toward him and then kneels at his side. “I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

“Well, you definitely won’t if my father’s knights find you here! You have to go, _now_ , before they see you.” He knows, yet cannot find it in himself to care, that he sounds every bit as desperate and torn as Merlin does. He watches Merlin place his hand upon the bloody patch where his skin once gaped open, and looks up into the boy’s eyes, knowing what will happen when they glow golden once more.

“Goodbye, Arthur.” He carries those parting words, spoken in that soft, longing tone, for months. It fortifies him every time he makes an attempt to dissuade his father from executing another man, woman, or child accused of sorcery, and breaks his heart every time he fails.

He keeps trying. He keeps trying, and he keeps remembering, because Merlin changed something he had once thought indelible in Arthur: his total faith in his father’s decisions.

One day, he will meet Merlin again. And he wants that day to be completely without fear.


	2. Because I Knew You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur throws his sword on the table in exhausted resignation. He tries and he tries, and nothing ever changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story follows about eleven months after. And is a whole lot longer. I had no idea this thing was going to get so out of hand. *shakes head* The title for this is taken from a beautiful song in the musical Wicked. I'm thinking the next part may be called 'I Have Been Changed' and the one after 'For Good'.

Arthur throws his sword on the table in exhausted resignation. He tries and he tries, and nothing ever changes. His father is as unyielding as the stone walls of the castle he uses to keep out invaders of both the kingdom, and his own heart.

 _A three-year-old._

How _could_ he?

That little girl had done nothing wrong – but Uther heard the word ‘sorcery’, and within hours, the tiny, innocent, adorable thing had sunk to the bottom of the lake on the outskirts of Camelot, stones weighing her slight frame down even as she struggled frantically.

Arthur thinks back on what sparked the entire ghastly affair and grimaces, leaning against one of his bedposts and pressing his head against the cool, dark wood. The mother, Leah, whose milky-white complexion and flaxen hair draw admiring looks wherever she goes, is married to Jon, a sheep farmer who is blonde and pale as could be, but the little girl who now lies on the lake’s bed had auburn hair and dark brown eyes… much like Jareth, the tanner who lives in the lower town.

The sheep farmer had come to Uther claiming he caught his daughter creating fire from air and frightening his livestock, said that he did not want to turn his own child in, but that he would not go against the law.

But Arthur asked around the lower town, and he had been given quite a different picture. Leah was forced to marry Jon, who is considerably older, to repay her widowed mother’s debt to the man for helping year after year to keep Leah fed and clothed. Leah and Jareth were childhood sweethearts, and Jon had more than once threatened Jareth to stay away from his wife. When little Lena was born, everyone found her lovely beyond compare – she had her mother’s beautiful features, but her eyes were so dark they looked almost black, and her rich brown-red hair baffled friends and family; everyone, save Jon, Jareth, and Leah. Jon waited for a few years, watching to see if Lena ever showed herself to truly belong to him. But nothing changed, other than her ever-increasing beauty, and Jon’s jealousy and fury grew until just yesterday, when he appealed to the king.

Arthur remembers bitterly the passion with which he fought for Lena’s life, the painful truth which he brought to light, ruining Leah’s and Jareth’s reputations. Afterward, Leah tearfully thanked Arthur, even though she was utterly destroyed, and she still lost her daughter. That is the worst part, Arthur thinks. That the young mother lost everything and could only find it in herself to express such heartfelt _gratitude_ for his doomed attempt to save her little one’s life.

Jon was _not_ so thankful. He had glared acid at Camelot’s heir apparent in the moments when Uther was not watching, and even the vicious joy Arthur witnessed on the hateful man’s face, when the king ruled Lena guilty and sentenced her to a watery death, had not completely erased the fury from having his wife’s affair exposed.

The quiet opening and closing of his door draws Arthur from his ruminations, and he looks up only to see his father’s ward furtively slipping into his room, a determined but concerned expression marring her coldly beautiful visage. When she stands before him, hands clenched into fists at her sides, she speaks in a low, yet urgent tone, “Arthur, we have to do something for Leah.”

Shaking his head dejectedly, he responds, “What exactly do you think that I was trying to do before? I hate what has happened just as much – if not more than – you do, Morgana, but there’s nothing to be done. Lena is already –“

“- Not Lena, the poor child. Her mother. That awful man is never going to let her live after what you told the court. Everyone in Camelot knows what she and Jareth did to him. She’s not safe.” Oh. Arthur feels a brief swell of guilt at just how good it feels having a problem he can actually solve – because how could he feel relieved when that beautiful little girl lay at the bottom of the lake, her life ended long before she could truly live it?

Straightening from his defeated stance against his bedpost, Arthur nods, feeling a wonderful sense of purpose building within. “Right. We have to get her out of Camelot, to a place Jon wouldn’t think to look. Do you think Jareth would go with her?”

Just before Morgana has the chance to give her thoughts on the matter, there is a dull thud, accompanied by a soft tenor exclaiming, _“Ow!”_ and Arthur turns to see, _“Merlin!”_ the person who has occupied his thoughts for almost a year since that life-altering day on the battlefield, sprawled out on the floor with his hands bracing him, looking up at Arthur, every bit as surprised to find himself in his chambers.

Problems forgotten for the moment, Arthur starts forward, hand extending toward the boy on his floor of its own accord. “We have got to stop meeting like this.” He grins at Merlin’s playfully exasperated declaration, and then watches in confusion as the boy turns toward the door, which he sees is now open, containing the hell-bent form of Jon, the sheep herder, in the midst of throwing a knife directly at Arthur.

Arthur knows that it is too late; the knife will surely meet its mark. He steels himself, and breathes in deeply, hoping with everything he has that Merlin will be able to pull off another miracle.

The knife never strikes.

When Arthur exhales in the next second, the blade, a simple sheering knife which had been spinning its deadly way toward him, protrudes from the would-be assassin’s chest.

The three youths watch in stunned silence as Jon falls to the ground, his lifeless eyes frozen in a look of abject terror.

And then Merlin releases a wordless cry from his place on the floor, and Arthur goes to him, scooping his trembling body into his arms and clutching him tightly to his chest. Merlin muffles his sobs in Arthur’s leather vest, each one striking the prince’s still blessedly beating, though currently breaking, heart. Because he _knows,_ though he has only met the other boy once, that this is Merlin’s first time killing a man, and that it was done without thought, without intent, simply out of that same instinct to protect that Arthur felt toward Merlin and which binds them together. And there is something fundamentally _wrong_ with such an obviously caring person being forced to take a life. Merlin is no knight. He has made no vows. Arthur may be sworn to defend and protect, has certainly ended plenty of lives in the time since they last met in service to the kingdom, but this is not something which this boy, who is falling apart in his battle-trained arms, should ever have had to face. He feels a fresh wave of hatred crash over him for the now-dead sheep farmer. This is Jon’s fault. And then he feels an accompanying wave of guilt that says this is _his_ fault, as well.

He runs his sword hand through Merlin’s dark strands, tying to soothe them both, and ignores the increasingly shocked presence of Morgana at his back. He wonders distantly what surprises the harpy more: that he can actually show someone other than his horse, Hengroen affection, or that the human being in question is a young male sorcerer in peasant’s rags, and then he discards the matter as unworthy of consideration. Merlin will always be more important.

At last, Merlin’s horse cries die down, and he pulls back slightly to look at Arthur, his eyes rather red and puffy, his nose a little runny, and every bit as beautiful as he was that first day saving his life eleven months ago. The hand with which he has been gently smoothing through Merlin’s hair, he now brings up to wipe away the last of Merlin’s tears. Merlin’s lips tilt up gently at the edges in response, and Arthur finds the soft expression impossible to resist, his face shifting in kind. “Hi there.”

Merlin snorts at this, sounding congested from his recent crying jag. “Hi,” and if his voice is rough from his outpouring of sorrow, it really only serves to make him that much more endearing, and causes Arthur to wonder how he could possibly care so deeply for someone he barely knows. _Though really,_ he muses, _it feels as though I’ve known him for a lifetime._

“Would someone please tell me what is going on?” Arthur cannot fight the wryly amused smirk which Morgana’s shrill demand incites, though he finds it diminish slightly as the realization that they are not alone dawns in his companion’s eyes, along with a growing panic.

“No, none of that. Merlin, this is Morgana. She’s a friend. Occasionally.” And he really cannot blame Merlin for the fact that this does nothing to reassure him. He tries again. “Honestly, do you think we would still be here if she were a threat? We can trust her, I _promise_. Idiot.” Oddly enough, it is the insult which causes Merlin to release some of the tension which began to stiffen his slight frame, and Arthur files that fact away for later. Then he drags his eyes away from the other boy’s to glance at Morgana’s palpably curious form. “Morgana, this is Merlin, Merlin, Morgana. Merlin here has the habit of saving my life at unexpected moments. Morgana is my father’s ward. And I’ve known her since childhood.” Merlin’s apprehension returns with this information, and Morgana, though slightly wary still, searches for something to set him at ease.

“I… I have these dreams, sometimes. And they come true. I think I saw you when Arthur was off fighting the Nemethians .” She watches the boy tilt his head in thought, muscles still taut in the circle of Arthur’s embrace. All the while, she balks at the knowledge that this utter _stranger_ , this bizarre savior, is the first to know the truth from which she has hidden for most of her life. But something about this is right. She feels a kinship with Merlin, perhaps her magic’s – and she feels an overwhelming sense of _release_ at the ability to actually admit this, in the confines of her mind and to someone who might understand, just a little, what she is going through – way of recognizing a similarly gifted individual.

“Dreams… like… visions?” And though his tone is dubious, his interest is blatant, and she seizes the opening gladly.

“Yes, exactly. Your secret is safe with me.” And then Merlin smiles, and it is like watching the rising of the sun.

And then Arthur opens his mouth. “Wait, Morgana? Those dreams you have are… magic? I thought they were just nightmares.”

Exasperated, she rolls her eyes and informs the bane of her existence, “Well of course you did, Arthur. That’s what I _wanted_ you to think. It’s not as if I could tell anyone, and especially not you, that I have magic. You do remember that little girl whose life your father ended today?” And then she feels horrible, because Arthur looks positively wrecked at this reminder of what she knows he sees as a personal failure in his duty to the people under his protection, even from his own father.

“Arthur? What’s wrong? What girl is she talking about?” His own grief for innocence lost now forgotten, Merlin seeks to comfort his friend, his hands twisting in the fabric of the blue shirt beneath his spindly fingers, as though he can coax the story from the soft fibers.

“The man who you – who tried to kill me, he told my father that his wife’s daughter, Lena, had magic.” He watches Merlin’s mind work at the facts presented, and knows exactly when he reaches the proper conclusion.

“His _wife’s_ daughter?” Arthur nods at the probing inquiry.

“It was not a happy marriage. Leah’s mother was pressured into allowing the union by Jon – that’s her husband – only Leah loved another.”

“Lena’s father?”

“Is not Jon, no. I still need to help them find a life somewhere other than Camelot, in case my father decides that Jon was killed by either of them for revenge. Gawant would probably be safest.” This last part he directed at Morgana, who observed their interactions with an intrigued air, and she nodded her approval.

“What about Ealdor?” Both nobles turned to look at Merlin, surprised by the slightly timid suggestion. He warmed to the subject as he noticed their attention, and explained, “It’s the village where I live. In Escetia. The king, Cenred, never pays any attention to us. It’s one of the reasons my mother chose to live there.”

Considering the merits of such a remote and autonomous community, Arthur nods, deciding that a place outside of his father’s purview would be best. “Ealdor it is.”

“Gwen and I can go call on Leah, help her prepare to leave.” As she turns toward the door, Arthur stops her.

“Wait. I want to be there, to… say goodbye.” To say _sorry_. “We’ll meet you there.”

Her eyes widen at this, uncertain of the wisdom behind allowing Merlin to be seen out in the open. “Is that safe, Arthur? Wouldn’t it be better if Merlin simply went back the way he came?”

“By the time everything is ready and Leah and Jareth have said goodbye to what few friends they still have in Camelot, night will have fallen. I’m sure it will be fine. If something goes wrong, Merlin can simply use his magic to get away.” He fights against the fierce need to shield the other boy from the rest of the world. Merlin would never appreciate it. More than that, he truly does need to leave, and it would be good for Leah and Jareth to have some company on the road. After all, there is strength in numbers. They could simply say that Merlin came to visit with Guinevere or her brother Elyan, who should be just about Merlin’s age, and Leah and Jareth would be none the wiser.

Morgana eyes him skeptically, but acquiesces, and then she departs, stepping gingerly over the body crumpled before the door, along with the rather large pool of blood which seeps from the place where the knife twisted when his chest impacted with the floor.

The two remaining gaze anxiously at the bloody corpse and, more than a little green, Merlin says, “We should probably figure out what to do about… that.”

A morbidly humorous mood settles on Arthur. “Mm, I really don’t want to think what my manservant Morris would think about that when he comes to bring me my dinner this evening.”

A yelp and, “Your manservant?! What are we going to tell him? He’s hardly going to believe the idea that I was just dropping by your chambers for a bit before heading home – which is at least a day’s journey from here, by the way.”

“Oh, re _lax_. It’s not like he’s going to say anything. Trust me, Morris knows _exactly_ what will happen to him if he so much as breathes a word of this to anyone.” At this, Merlin gives him a thoroughly disapproving look, and Arthur feels that same delight he felt all those months ago at finally finding someone other than Morgana who treats him as an equal – and small wonder, given the fact that he could end a man’s life without so much as the twitch of a hand or a quiet word. He marvels at the fact that his protector is truly dangerous, though he knows just as surely as the dawn that he has nothing to fear. “Don’t give me that look, Merlin. It’s not like I’m going to hurt him.” _Much._ “Now. Is there any way you could set – that – on fire?”

He receives an incredulous stare at this suggestion. “You want me to set a fire in your room?”

“Well obviously we would move the thing to the fireplace, but yes, I do.” At this, the body was suddenly in his fireplace, the beginnings of a blaze already burning brightly, giving off unnecessary heat on a rather warm spring afternoon. “… Does your magic always respond that quickly?”

“Only when I’m around you.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow for that admission, and then sighs.

“We have _got_ to find a way to teach you some control.”  
…  
Sneaking into the court physician’s rooms is easy, especially since Gaius is reportedly out gathering rare herbs for the day; Arthur suspects his true reason for making himself scarce has more to do with a desire to avoid witnessing yet another senseless execution of an innocent.

Finding the stash of magical books which Arthur just knows the wily old man has to be hoarding proves _much_ more complicated.

“And you’re sure that this Gaius has spellbooks here?” Merlin’s voice is weary and strained, and his hair is disheveled perhaps beyond all hope after an hour of running frustrated fingers through it in between sifting through the vast collection of dusty old tomes. And then Arthur wants to hit his head against the sagging desk where he has been searching for anything that could possibly have something to do with magic.

Why did he not think of this before? “Merlin, can’t you just will it to come to you, like earlier, with the fire?” And he carefully avoids mentioning the _other thing_ Merlin’s magic had leaped to take care of earlier. Merlin is fine at the moment – he actually seems quite content, underneath the veneer of exasperation which Arthur suspects is largely for his benefit. Besides, their search has the added side effect of removing Merlin from Arthur’s chambers, avoiding the potential for trouble that a meeting with Morris might incur. Arthur has no qualms about doing whatever it takes to keep the nervous manservant quiet, but he does not wish to hear, for months to come, Merlin’s voice telling him in his head that he does not have the right to make Morris miserable simply because he is the prince.

Just as he thought, Merlin’s magic rises eagerly to the challenge, bringing at least twenty different books out from various hiding places about the room. Merlin looks up at Arthur from the chair where he is sitting to go through yet another stack of books in playful consternation, his eyes just now fading back to their usual steely blue, which Arthur knows he will think about again and again until the next time they meet. “…I guess that answers that question.”

“Wonderful. Now we just have to find one that you can use.” Which is going to be particularly trying, he is certain, because he has never studied magic in his life, for obvious reasons, and he is fairly sure that his friend has not done so either.

But Merlin’s magic must _really_ like Arthur, because right as he finishes speaking, one of the books in the illegal pile shimmies out from the middle and comes to rest before him. He nods, deciding not to comment this time, and simply turns to hand the book to the one who will actually be able to put it to good use. Merlin takes the book with a slightly embarrassed air and then sighs, looking out the window. “It’s almost dark.”

And Arthur knows exactly what he means, but refuses to actually think on it until he absolutely must, and so he merely says, “It’s good that we found this now, then. I would hate to have to search through Gaius’ books in the dark, and if we lit any candles there’s no way to be sure that they would be dry by the time he returns.”

Merlin sees right through him and does not humor his silent request for a change of subject. “Where do we need to meet the others?”

“Down by the blacksmith’s house. Morgana’s handmaiden, Guinevere, is his daughter, and she is going to help us to get you, Leah, and Jareth out of the city. Once you reach the forest, you should be fine.” He rolls his neck, relieving some of the discomfort from the odd positions he has been contorting himself into to see the books lining the walls and stacked precariously on the floor and table. “I doubt I need to warn you not to tell them about your magic, but just in case.” And he knows this is overprotective and condescending, but since he cannot go along with the little group, he wants to have every assurance that Merlin will be careful. After all, how will he know if something happens?

His concern is rewarded with an offended glare and the fact that, “I _can_ actually look after myself, Arthur, thanks.”

“You’d better be able to, since I won’t be there to do it for you.” And though he jests, there is a great deal of truth in his words, which he knows Merlin can hear just as clearly as if he had shouted them  
.  
“I’ll be fine, Arthur. When we reach Ealdor I’ll write a note to – Gwen? – that she can pass on to you to let you know we made it safely.” Arthur supposes that is the best he can hope for, given the circumstances. He expects that he shall spend a great deal of time on the training field over the next few days, fighting whoever of the knights is foolish enough to be without a partner when it is time to pair up, working to block out the worry he knows will plague him until that letter makes it into his desperate hands.

Glancing up at the night sky, he nods and decides that it is past time for them to return to his room so that Merlin can eat; Arthur had been planning all day to eat in his chambers, in an effort to avoid having to look into his father’s eyes after being forced to witness Lena drown at midday, as punishment for fighting openly against her execution. However, now that meal could go to Merlin, and Arthur would drag Morgana into the dining hall tonight so that they could endure his father’s victory together. After all, he will have to spend time with his father at some point. He may as well get the initial unpleasant meeting over with in relative private, rather than in a council meeting, one of which is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

“Come along, Merlin. Wrap that book up in something and then follow me. It’s time for us to leave.” Merlin grabs a slightly musty old blanket which Gaius uses to cover patients who come in with chills and covers the book with it.

“Won’t someone wonder what’s in the blanket?” Arthur absolutely _does not_ find Merlin’s fretting endearing.

He shakes his head impatiently. “Even if they do, no one will ask about it. You’re with me.” He reaches out and pulls the boy close on the short journey to the door, then removes his arm from about his shoulders and leads the way back to his chambers.

After making sure that Merlin eats everything on the plate, Arthur rummages through the cloaks in his closet and pulls out a dark purple on which he has never been fond of, but felt obligated to keep, since it was given as a token of goodwill that autumn by an emissary from Gawant came to discuss the possibility of strengthening the border between their kingdoms and Mercia. He takes the cloak and manhandles Merlin into it, talking over the boy’s protests of the fine quality of the fabric, about the fact that it will cool significantly on the journey to Ealdor. After his argument manages to win Merlin over, Arthur smooths out any creases or wrinkles, admiring the way the color brings out the boy’s eyes. He steps back and decides that, in this instance, Merlin’s slender frame is a blessing, as the excess fabric serves to lengthen the cloak to cover his slightly greater height.

“So, I guess it’s time for me to leave, then.” Merlin’s depressed observation comes with a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders, and though Arthur feels just as upset at their imminent separation, a warmth curls in his belly at the evident lack of enthusiasm.

“So it would seem.”

He sees Merlin’s lips twitch minutely, and has about a second of warning before he receives this bit of cheek, “Not to worry. It can’t be that long before we see each other again, judging by the time it took for you to get into trouble since the first time we met. I’m sure you’ll need saving soon enough.”  
Arthur will ignore this graciously, because he is a kind and generous lord and knows that it is important to allow his inferiors to feel as though they are valued members of society. Which is why he proceeds to pull Merlin into a headlock and knuckle his already-messy hair until the boy laughingly begs for mercy. Clearly he does not mind overmuch; if he did, his overactive magic would already have put an end to it.

At last, he releases Merlin from his punishment, but does not let him go entirely, giving in to the desire to keep him as close as possible until they are forced to say goodbye. Merlin leans into him, of the same mind. They do not speak, though in the few hours they have had together since Morgana left them, they have spoken at great length about whatever comes to mind, from Arthur’s disastrous first hunt, which resulted in an arrow lodging itself in Sir Hector’s left buttock, to the way it felt the first time he had to end a man’s life on the battlefield, to the time that Merlin accidentally set his the only trousers which would still fit his rapidly growing frame on fire because he hated how they made him itch, leaving him only the tights he typically wore underneath, until his mother could trade some of her vegetables for more fabric, to Merlin’s continued guilt at the death of the sheep farmer Jon.

This moment, right here, is not meant for talking.

A knock at the door prompts them to pull away from each other slowly, reluctantly, and after Merlin grabs the still-covered book of magic off of the table, Arthur puts a hand around one of Merlin’s upper arms to maintain at least some contact before the more lasting separation which will take place at the gates. He hopes Morgana has seen to the castle guards. He has no wish to explain this nightly excursion to his father. With any luck, it will appear to everyone as though Leah and Jareth simply slipped away into the night unaided, and Merlin was never here.

Gwen is there with a bag of for Merlin, with food and some old cloths for bandages in case there is trouble along the way, into which Merlin gratefully slips his dangerous burden. The trip to the serving girl’s home is as quiet as they can make it. If she notices the continued point of contact between her prince and his charge, she does not say, though she does occasionally shoot them curious glances.

Eventually, they reach her home, and Tom ushers them inside. Arthur reminds himself to do something to repay the blacksmith and his family for helping them and not asking too many questions. In the mean time, he simply says, “Thank you, Tom, and you Guinevere. I understand the risk you take in helping Leah and Jareth, as well as in helping Merlin.”

“We were happy to, Sire.” The smile Tom gives to him is kind before he continues, “Your mother would be proud of you. This is a wonderful thing that you are doing.”

Arthur does not know what to say to such praise, delivered in such an open, matter of fact way, as though Tom truly believes what he is saying. He is saved from the need to respond by the arrival of Morgana, along with Leah and Jareth, who hold hands tightly and look absolutely right together, beautiful even in the midst of their tragic loss. It gives Arthur hope that they will find a better life in Ealdor. Love that can survive so many trials is truly worth fighting for, and they clearly have it in each other.

“Thank you, again, my Lord, for all that you have done. I will never be able to repay you for your kindness and your bravery. Thank you for trying to save my Lena, and for saving me and Jareth now.” Leah, gentle yet passionate in everything she does, delivers her heartfelt gratitude with tears in her eyes and a soft, sorrowful smile on her lips, and Arthur has never felt so humbled in his entire life.

Swallowing against the welling of emotion, Arthur replies, “I only wish I could have done more. I am truly sorry for your loss. If there is ever anything that you need, please know that you need only ask, and I will do everything in my power to see it done.” He realizes only after Merlin shoots him a concerned look that his hand is more than likely cutting off circulation in his friend’s arm, so tightly is the hold he keeps. He forces himself to relax his hand, not wishing to bruise Merlin, and knowing that they will soon part. “This is Merlin. I believe Morgana has informed you that he will be joining you on your journey to Ealdor. He lives there, along with his mother, and he assures me that King Cenred will have no hand in your lives, should you choose to settle there.”

Merlin smiles at the mourning couple, and Arthur feels again the pangs of their impending farewell as he say, “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m sure living in Ealdor is quite different from living in a city like Camelot, but I think that you’ll be happy there. It’s a quiet village, but we all work hard and we all help to take care of each other, and if you ever need anything, all you have to do is come see me and my mother. We would be more than happy to help.”

Jareth, a quiet, soft-spoken man, who never speaks an unkind word to anyone, thanks Merlin and discretely squeezes his lover’s hand, and Arthur knows that it is time. He turns to Merlin and stares at him, memorizing his slightly older appearance for however long he must wait until their next serendipitous meeting, and can tell from the look his eyes that he does the same. Leah, proving far more perceptive than Arthur anticipated, announces, “Jareth and I will go wait outside,” and then leads the man out by their linked hands. Morgana follows after saying thanking Tom and Guinevere, who both turn away and try to look busy with different tasks around the house.

“Well, this has been the most interesting day _I’ve_ ever had.” Arthur’s tone is wry and slightly wistful, and Merlin ducks his head in response, smiling just a little.

“That’s one way to put it. Is it ever going to be any less… well… just _less_ I suppose, than this?” Merlin asks, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“With _you?_ ” He revels just a tad in the indignation this inspires.

Sobering, Merlin replies, “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to see you again to find out.”

Arthur nods at this idea. “That does seem to be the only logical solution.” Conscious of the others in the little house, he hesitates momentarily before deciding that they will not care, or that, if they do, they know better than to say anything, and so he wraps his arms around Merlin, who comes unresisting once more. He whispers fiercely in the rather large ear closest to his lips, “If I do not hear from you in seven days, I _will_ hunt you down. Do you understand?” and feels the muscles in his face shift as he grins.

“Yes, Arthur. I understand.” He pulls back and gazes at Arthur for a moment that is both endless and far too brief, and then he simply says, “Goodbye,” and draws away completely, heading for the door.

After bidding Tom and Guinevere goodnight, Arthur heads up to the battlements to watch the small, dark figures grow smaller and smaller in the faint light of the stars. Morgana comes up to stand beside him and says softly, “Come, Arthur. We can’t keep Uther waiting.”

Casting one last look at the swiftly disappearing form of Merlin, Arthur nods his assent and turns away, joining his father’s ward on a journey only slightly less perilous than the one that Merlin now makes to Ealdor, though Arthur’s will last far longer. Because even though he lost the battle against his father’s persecution of people like the amazing boy who has so thoroughly captured his heart, he is resolved.

He will continue to fight.

And he _will_ win the war.


End file.
